


Poisoned Apples - a compilation of hxh oneshots

by hisokasecret



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27243715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisokasecret/pseuds/hisokasecret
Summary: A compilation of HxH oneshots first published on my twitter (@hisokasecret), featuring a variety of ships across different genres. Enjoy! (scroll through the chapter index for a better idea of what each oneshot entails)
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Hisoka/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight, Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer & Kurapika, Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Illumi Zoldyck
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72





	1. the one in which Chrollo is smitten

**Author's Note:**

> Chrollo/Illumi
> 
> _I'm hooked on all these feelings, I know exactly what I'm feeling_
> 
> Who's that woman at the bar? Chrollo does not know, but he has half a mind to find out. The other half is fixated on the way the silk slides over her thighs. The alcohol must be getting to him.

The lights are dimmer than usual at the bar tonight; one of the sparse rows of light bulbs has gone out, leaving a section of the quaint bar shrouded in shadow, more so than usual. Chrollo Lucilfer sits in his usual booth near the back of the room. His drink is on the table, untouched. Condensation pools around the edges of the glass. He is not in the mood tonight. Something about tonight’s routine is boring, he thinks to himself, glancing around at the nearly empty bar, watching a few strangers chat in low voices, mingling without any real care.

He contemplates leaving. There's nothing to stay for, so why is he waiting? A muted tingle of the entrance bell drifts through the bar and reaches his ears as the door opens. Someone walks in.

He catches sight of the newcomer and all thoughts of leaving fly clean out of his mind.

The first thing Chrollo notices is the long black hair. It cascades down shoulders and comes to rest at hip level, swaying delicately as the stranger weaves past quiet tables and to the front of the bar. They’re wearing a gorgeous flowing dress, in muted tones of matte black and deep indigo, hugging their body in the right places. As they take a seat on one of the bar stools, Chrollo catches a glimpse of a pale leg peeking through the dangerously high thigh slits. He cranes his neck, as subtly as he can manage, but is unable to see the stranger’s face. Chrollo’s interest is piqued; now he simply must know.

He stands up to leave, but takes one last look at his forgotten drink. _Ah, what the hell._ He grabs it and downs it in one gulp with a grimace and a shudder, before making his way to the counter.

“What’s a beautiful thing like yourself doing here alone?”

Chrollo angles his head to one side, eyeing the stranger from the corner of his eyes. It’s not as intimidating as looking at them head on, but enough to indicate sufficient interest. Coupled with a natural helping of charisma and his daresay attractive and enigmatic features, this tactic has always worked. A shy glance, through hooded lids and batted lashes, a soft giggle or a smile hidden behind nervous hands. He always gets something in return, getting them to bite is never difficult.

But this stranger does not move, much less glance in Chrollo’s direction. A few moments of tense silence pass. Chrollo readjusts his shirt collar with nervous hands. This has never happened before.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

The stranger sighs, and turns to look at Chrollo dead in the eye.

_Oh._

She’s gorgeous. Her large doe eyes are darker than the deepest obsidian, and they seem to have no end. Chrollo is usually the dominating one, bearing down on his helpless prey with piercing grey eyes, but this time, it is he who finds himself being sucked into the well of darkness, unable (and unwilling) to escape.

“Can I help you?” Her voice sounds like hollow wind chimes and empty glass jars.

Chrollo’s lips have gone dry.

“Yes.” He replies dumbly.

The stranger quirks an eyebrow in a severe act of judgement of the highest degree. Chrollo can’t seem to find his voice. He’s never been rendered speechless like this before and he feels like a young school girl.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

The woman has the strangest expression on her previously deadpan face. Her lips are contorted in a twisted line and she stares at him with a look so devastating that anyone else might have melted right then and there.

“I’m not a woman.”

_Oh._

For the second time tonight, Chrollo is at a loss for words. He can only muster a nervous laugh.

“My sentiment still stands,” he bows his head in embarrassment. “I’m really messing this up, aren’t I?”

The stranger looks away from him and stares at the counter, svelte arms folded delicately over his firm chest, and shrugs slightly.

“I like absinthe.”

Chrollo perks up. That’s something he can work with. He motions to the bartender. 

“‘Copper and Kings’ absinthe for the gentleman, please.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. Top shelf alcohol, huh. Chrollo had been a regular long enough for him to know that he never bought top shelf alcohol for a new conquest. He looks for confirmation. Chrollo gives him a firm nod and turns back to the gorgeous stranger in his elegant dress, trying to think of something intelligent to say.

“Chrollo Lucilfer. I know who you are.”

Chrollo’s heart rate quickens. This is an interesting development.

“How?”

“You’re quite well-known for your… work.” The stranger says the last word with interest.

“Thank you, I’m flattered.”

The drink arrives, in splendid fashion, smoke spewing from the tiny spoon balanced atop the rim of the ornate goblet.

They watch the smoke for a while.

“May I have the honour of knowing your name? You are stunning.”

Something that he’s made clear several times throughout the course of their short conversation, but Chrollo’s inhibitions have been lowered and his intrigue too great.

“Illumi.”

“Illumi, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you.” 

He reaches out to take Illumi’s hand, and Illumi relents, letting the other man press a light kiss to the back of his gloved knuckles. 

“Likewise.”

Illumi simply watches the events unfold, as if he is an observer privy to a conversation he is not a participant in. Having Chrollo Lucilfer wrapped around his finger could prove very helpful for his family indeed. 

He takes a long deep sip of the absinthe and sighs, contentedly. Chrollo takes this as a good sign.

“Can I take you to dinner sometime, Illumi? I know a lovely French place we can go.”

“Oh?” Illumi feigns interest. _French hm?_ Vague memories of a certain magician comes to mind but he presses down the rising thoughts, and continues sipping from his goblet. No distractions tonight.

“Yes,” Chrollo continues. “How does next Thursday sound?”

Illumi tilts his head to one side, exposing his bare neck to Chrollo in a move of practiced and muted seduction. He feels the other man’s eyes on him, watching intently.

“Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Do you know where I live?”

“I have my sources.” Chrollo smiles pleasantly. Of course he does. He'll make things work.

"Well, I'll see you then." 

Illumi finishes the last of his drink and smiles back, rising from his stool to take his leave. 

"Let me call you a cab."

Chrollo begins to stand up, but Illumi holds up a gloved hand to stop him.

"No need. I'll see you Thursday."

And with a sweep of his dress, and not so much as a backward glance, Illumi is gone.

Chrollo sits back in his seat, winded by this encounter. Somehow, it doesn't even occur to him that the stranger hadn't actually done anything at all. He had arrived, had a drink (not even paid for it), and left. So, what had been his true purpose for coming to the bar tonight? Chrollo doesn't know, and he doesn't think to ask himself these questions. All he can think about is what to wear come next Thursday evening.

As the door to the quaint bar closes behind him with a soft tinkle, Illumi laughs without mirth. 

It is all too easy.


	2. the one in which Hisoka sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka/Illumi  
> 
> 
> _you say you can't live without me,_  
>  _so why aren't you dead yet?_  
>  _why you still breathing?_
> 
> Why is he back? Illumi has no answers to this. He can only close his eyes and hope the nightmare ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // TW : self-harm, suicide themes, non-consensual, kissing, toxic

"What are you doing here?"

Illumi's knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the door, his feet rooted on the spot.

"I came to find you."

The red-haired magician is standing before him, his wide shoulders taking up too much space in the doorway. Illumi tries to shut the door but it won't budge.

"Go away."

"Illumi."

"My love is not a game, Hisoka."

"Let me in."

"I said _leave_."

It takes a lot for Illumi to spit out the last word. It comes as a choke; a croak. How dare he stand there, shamelessly, how dare he beg to be let in. How many nights had Illumi gone to bed with eyes stained in the painful hue of his former lover's vicious mane. How many times had Illumi raked the skin of his forearms until hangnails wedged in the crevices of paled flesh. How many times had he screamed into his pillow until his lungs deflated, burst like balloons with pins. Pins. Needles. Hisoka. Pain. 

There was nothing.

"You're the only one I love."

Illumi wants to die.

"Liar. You're a liar."

His voice is no longer his. Whose is it? The slight quiver, barely audible, the petulant comeback. It is foreign; it is not him. 

"Look at me, Illumi."

Hisoka pushes his way in and Illumi is powerless to stop him. The magician takes Illumi's face in his unnaturally gentle hands. This is wrong. It feels so wrong; Illumi had convinced himself that these are not the hands befitting of a scoundrel.

Hisoka's hands were coarse and full of trickery; they bore leather-woven lies. He donned knuckle dusters and dealt the cold, calculated blows of a trained killer to the heart.

He struck where it hurt most.

And Illumi had let him in. It was all his own fault. And now, as Hisoka cups his face with warm hands, Illumi begins to cry. He's doing it again, letting him in. Illumi pushes against him, but Hisoka's hands remain firm and insistent, guiding his chin upwards and suddenly, Illumi is once again staring into strikingly familiar honey golden eyes. He knows them better than he'd like. Looking into them now dredges up memories from their murky depths, tainted with tears and screams. He shudders involuntarily. 

_Hold it together_

"Look at me." Illumi feels the sudden urge to throw up.

"No."

Tears stream silently down his cheeks. He no longer cries with sound.

"I would never hurt you."

_Lies._

"You did."

"I'm sorry."

There is no emotion in the magician's voice. It's almost laughable. What kind of apology is that? Not one that Illumi needed nor cared for.

_You're not._

"Leave now."

"Illumi, listen to me--"

"I won't say it again. Leave."

The skin around Illumi's knuckles tighten around the cruelly gentle hands that hold his face.

"I was doing fine without you," He whispers. "I was healing."

For the first time since stepping over the threshold, Hisoka's face softens.

His expression is a clear mixture of sympathy and sadness. Illumi is not buying it for one second.

"No, you're still hurting." The magician murmurs softly, tucking a strand of hair behind Illumi's ear and sighing sadly.

Illumi is cynical enough to admit that Hisoka's acting has indeed improved by leaps and bounds. The deception is almost impressive, flawless, even. But he knows what to watch for, now. He knows the tells. He is not falling; not this time.

"Stop talking like you know anything about me." 

He spits the words into the magician's face, and relishes in the flecks of saliva landing on his powdered nose. Such behaviour is usually considered uncouth, but Illumi will make an allowance for tonight. Hisoka doesn't flinch.

"Oh, but I do, Illumi.

I know your worst fears, your deepest secrets, your darkest traumas. I was there. I helped you."

"You hurt me." Illumi throws the accusation like a wounded child.

"A necessary evil."

Though he knew it was coming, the pain of Hisoka's admission to his manipulation was no easier to swallow.

"Of course, I had to break you down, to build you back up."

There it is again, the cruel smirk. Hisoka has dropped his pretense now and Illumi sees the truth, clear as day.

"Did you get what you wanted? Did you have your fun? When will you stop treating me like a game, a prize to be won? I've had enou--"

Lips. His lips. They are softer than he'd remembered, but harder too. What? No. They're sweet, impossibly so.

The signature cherry chapstick so disgustingly artificial, Illumi nearly gags. Hisoka takes the opportunity to force his tongue in, just like he forces his way into everything, without care nor concern. He takes what he wants, then leaves a trail of broken things, scattered shards, and empty people. Hands begin roaming his body, caressing, and groping. It could only be pleasant for him. Illumi doesn't want this. He pushes against Hisoka's chest, furious at this unwelcome intrusion, into his home, into his life, into his lips. Hisoka, as always, ignores him.

When he finally relinquishes Illumi's lips, it is only when Hisoka is satisfied. But still, he holds onto his body, an arrogant predator, possessive of its wounded prey.

"Oh, how I've missed that."

There is not a hint of regret or shame in his voice. Illumi feels hollow now.

It had taken a long time for him to patch the gaping hole in his chest when Hisoka had left the first time, but now the kiss had sucked the air from his lungs and gouged raw flesh from his insides. But he will not give Hisoka the pleasure of watching him crumble. Not again.

"Why did you come here."

Hisoka shrugs.

"I wanted to see if you still loved me."

Even the statement itself is so bizarre, that it shakes Illumi out of his muddled daze. Love? Did Hisoka really think Illumi could still _love_ him after all that he'd done?

"You're out of your mind."

Hisoka laughs. It resembles a hyena's, shrill and mocking. 

"Sure, darling. But I got what I came for." 

Hisoka releases him and turns to leave. Illumi can only look down at his hands, his mind still reeling.

"Thanks, love. I'll be seeing you again soon."

Hisoka steps over the threshold, and is gone without a second glance, or another word, the door closing with a final, ominous click.

Illumi sinks down to his knees and cries. But no tears come. He feels nothing, nothing but the ghosts of unwelcome hands on his body and a choking tongue in his throat. Illumi prays desperately that the nightmares don't find him when he sleeps tonight, if at all. He is not hopeful that this will be the case. He hugs his knees towards his chest and cries a mute man's tears without wetness, the ugly taste of red still lingering on his tongue.


	3. the one in which Illumi gets his revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka/Illumi (cont from Chpt 2)
> 
> _Let me count the ways_  
>  _How I'll get you or how I'll make you pay_  
>  _Babe, I'm hurtin'_  
>  _And now you'll feel the same_
> 
> Even Illumi has his limits. Hisoka would wish he'd never tried him in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // TW: mention of trauma, gore, non-consensual, toxic rs

“Why?”

The vast room is devoid of anything but grey and dust. A bone-chilling wind blows in and rustles the silk gown draping from the assassin’s bodice.

It blows over the barely motionless body on the ground, its owner’s clothes stained, torn and tattered.

Illumi responds by driving the pointed heel of his silver-gilded stiletto into the soft flesh of Hisoka’s chest. 

“Revenge.”

There’s a sickening crunch when the metal finds its place, wedged firmly in the narrow slot between brittle ribs. This elicits a restrained cough from the redheaded magician on the ground, as a thick, dark liquid spews from his lips and stains his chin.

Illumi watches, expressionless.

“What happened to you, Illumi?” comes the soft plea. 

The magician sounds sad, and unnaturally so. As if this act wounded him beyond a physical realm; as if it drove a knife into his very essence. Hisoka’s eyes betray a sadness that has fooled many an innocent lamb. But Illumi thinks about the pain and the lies, and he knows better. Hisoka’s usually impeccable makeup is smudged, the signature teardrop and star rubbed away beyond recognition. His bare face is almost visible. Almost. An invisible mask separates Illumi from the fangs Hisoka bears, from the entity that lurks behind his attractive smirk. Illumi knows better than to trust this feint. He has fallen for it far too many times. 

“I outgrew you.”

Illumi’s eyes are cold and devoid of emotion. Flashes of memory are hidden behind matte corneas as Illumi recalls countless sickly lies. The way the magician had used and abused him, time and again with his words, his tongue, his flesh and body wounded; he has the scars to show. Invisible but still they remain. Imprinted far longer than he’d like. He almost pities the monster on the ground before him. Granted, Illumi is no saint himself. But at least he doesn’t go around masquerading as one.

Hisoka’s lips curl into a twisted upward grin.

“You took longer than I expected.”

Hisoka’s words send a deep chill down Illumi’s spine. Had he been less in control of his own body, Illumi’s eyes would have widened an infinitesimal degree. Hisoka knew. He had planned for this too. It was an elaborate ploy to… what?

Looking down into the magician’s mirthful eyes, pooling with the gold of thieves and swindlers, realisation dawns on Illumi in an instant. It is all a game. A game the magician has no intentions of winning. He knows his fate tonight, and he accepts it; in doing so, he forfeits the rules and Illumi is standing there, clutching the scoreboard with an empty pen. The sinister smile of a monster has no place within these walls and Illumi forces his heel further in, driving the metal stick of his stiletto heel further in. Hisoka’s bloody grin turns into a grimace. That’s better. Hisoka tilts his head to one side, almost mockingly.

“What’s the matter, darling?”

Even in his present state, the magician still has a firm hold on the last strings of Illumi’s mental state, fragile as it is to be puppeteered for so long by owners past, handed down like meat at a black market.

“Kill me.”

Hisoka’s lips on his. Soft and supple, loving even. Late nights, tongues tied. They danced to the beat of their own hearts. Those were the days. When he was loved. Hisoka’s bubble gum smile on his tongue.

“Kill me.”

Illumi shuts his eyes. No they weren’t. Flashes of pain, betrayal. Hisoka’s quickly fading image from his memory. A shaking hand reaches out to him, is it Illumi’s? He can’t tell. Hisoka leaves without a second glance, an angry red silhouette. Black spots dance in Illumi’s eyes.

“Kill me.”

Illumi doesn’t even register the actions that follow. Even as he withdraws his dripping hand from the empty body of his former lover, Illumi doesn’t feel like the winner. 

He didn’t win. Not this madness, this insane race.

It is difficult to proclaim Hisoka the winner either, not when he lies motionless and empty, heart ripped unceremoniously from his chest. No. There are no winners in this twisted game of lies and trickery. Hisoka made sure of that.

There are only survivors.


	4. the one in which Hisoka strikes a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka/Chrollo
> 
> _Now shut your dirty mouth_  
>  _If I could burn this town_  
>  _I wouldn't hesitate_  
>  _To smile while you suffocate and die_
> 
> Hisoka and Chrollo meet to discuss a pertinent issue. One could even say, it's a matter of life or death.

The Italian restaurant chosen for the occasion is small, and dimly-lit. Lamps covered in old lace hang daintily from walls of the quaint restaurant; its decorations seem to be in mild disagreement with the soft floral wallpaper, which is slightly peeling at the corners. The lamps are set to the dimmest possible lighting in a gallant attempt at creating an ambient mood. All it succeeds at doing is creating a faith flicker every now and then, casting momentary shadow on the diners as they eat.

Soft jazz plays in the background; from a recorded tape. The room is illuminated with nothing but the lamps and a few generously spaced candles on tiny round white tables.  
The restaurant is mostly empty, save for the odd couple looking to enjoy an affordable, yet reasonably fancy dinner, with adequate ambience and possibly badly recorded jazz music. 

The only oddities are the two diners sitting at one of the small round tables in a far corner. On one side, sits a man in a tapered black suit and tie. He’s dressed quite smartly, dark hair falling over his forehead in an effortless wave, and he has his hands folded neatly in his lap, almost as if in prayer. On the opposite side, a man with loud, fiery hair teased into a controlled coif. He sports a maroon blazer, several tiny rubies embedded into its lapel. His inner shirt is white, its V neck plunging so deeply that it would make the most professional prostitute blush. He leans back in his chair, and folds his arms across his barely covered chest, legs propped up on one of the rungs under the table beneath.

Anyone looking over would have the most difficult time piecing together their relationship, and if one had any common sense at all, they would not be looking anywhere near the two men.

The lone waiter on duty tonight has no such sense of self-preservation.

“Can I take your order, sirs?”

The man in the tapered black suit shakes his head ever so slightly, the way one might shake their head in disappointment at a young child. The only thing missing is the disapproving tut that so often accompanies the stare. The waiter shrinks under his withering look and backs away hastily. The man shifts his gaze to his companion.

“Where were we?” 

Chrollo Lucilfer looks across the table.

“So, as I was saying,” 

His companion in red tilts his head to one side, light from the candle on the table between the two men illuminating the underside of his face. The shadows playing on his angled jaw and cheekbones give him a haunting look. 

“How shall we settle this?”

“Heaven’s Arena.” Chrollo says simply. “That fulfills your conditions, doesn’t it, Hisoka?”

The magician arches a painted eyebrow. 

“I’m listening.”

“9 months.”

Hisoka closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, as if taking a nap. He then lets out a small chuckle.

“No.” His tone is frosty and deadly serious, a stark contrast from his earlier laugh. 

“2 weeks.”

Chrollo shakes his head.

“I can do 5 months.”

“3 weeks.”

“3 months.”

“3 weeks and 6 days.”

It’s Chrollo’s turn to laugh. 

“You are making this incredibly difficult.”

Hisoka leans forward very slowly, planting his forearms on the small round table as he makes direct eye contact with the Troupe Leader, his golden yellow eyes flashing dangerously. Hints of murderous aura leak out from the magician's usually well-kept shields, but of course, he's doing this on purpose. The room grows very cold, very quickly.

“What’s stopping me from fighting you, Troupe Leader? Right here, right now?”

Chrollo takes his time to answer, not once looking away from the magician’s penetrating stare; doing that would mean backing down. 

“Absolutely nothing.” 

He spreads his arms wide. He has nothing to hide. 

“But I know this is not what you have in mind for our duel."

There is a moment of tense silence. Calm grey eyes meet ravenous yellow ones.

“Of course not.” 

The moment passes, and Hisoka leans back in his chair, grinning widely.

“I did get all dressed up for you, after all.”

His voice takes on its signature flirtatious leer.

“2 months. Heaven’s Arena on the 1st of November.” 

He glances up, looking as if he might have been discussing something as bland as the weather.

“To the death, I presume?”

Hisoka’s lips curl into a hungry grin.

“How could I settle for anything less?”


	5. the one in which Leorio worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leorio/Kurapika
> 
> _You're gone, gone, gone away_   
>  _I watched you disappear_   
>  _All that's left is a ghost of you_
> 
> Leorio asks himself the same question a million times and still comes up empty. He worries for the day he no longer has the privilege of asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // TW: blood , wound

The door to Leorio’s apartment opens and shuts sharply. He glances up idly from his nightly readings, ready to greet his beau. But then he sees it. His eyes widen.

“Oh god, Kurapika!”

The doctor drops the thick stack of papers haphazardly on his desk and rushes to the young blonde presently kneeling over the threshold. Kurapika doesn’t speak, his breathing is laboured as he clutches his torso tightly.

A tiny pool of blood is already beginning to form on the marble floor beneath him, staining the white surface a stunning scarlet.

“What happened this time?! Why is it-- oh god, sit down here.”

Leorio guides Kurapika to the nearby couch and hastily clears it of the lopsided stack of textbooks that had previously been occupying it. The books tumble to the ground but Leorio is too concerned about the gaping wound in Kurapika’s torso to bother about a few fraying books.

The blonde man winces slightly as Leorio eases him onto the couch, the dark sticky substance staining his fingers as he clings desperately to the wound, as if to contain the blood (and doing a poor job of it).

“Leorio…”

“Don’t talk.” 

Leorio is very firm about this.

He pulls out a first aid kit from beneath the couch and pulls out a pair of scissors. Ever since they’d moved in together, Leorio had developed a habit of stashing first aid kits all around their apartment; clearly this isn’t the first time Kurapika has returned with more than a few light cuts. With a few calculated snips, Leorio trims the cloth of Kurapika’s stained shirt, leaving his midriff bare, and his wound exposed. He pulls out a few cotton balls and alcohol swabs and gets to work immediately, cleaning and assessing the extent of the injury.

“I’m sorry… For troubling you…” 

Kurapika’s eyes are closed, and the words escape his lips in shallow exhales.

“Be still.” Leorio’s brows are knitted in concern and concentration, threading the needle through skin as he sews with precision and skill. He finishes the job and cuts the thread cleanly, heaving a small sigh.

“You’re always going to worry me, you know, Kurapika? Until you stop doing that dangerous job of yours.” 

Leorio looks Kurapika dead in the eye, pleading without words. It’s Kurapika’s turn to frown.

“I can’t do that, you know--”

He winces again, he breathed a little too hard there. “It’s my duty.”

“Okay, stop. Not now.” 

Leorio turns away, and pulls out a roll of bandages. He can’t bear to see Kurapika like this.

They’d had this discussion one too many times, and as much as it pains Leorio, he knows how important his quest is to Kurapika. Even if it means that he has to patch him up after every encounter, every fight. Leorio looks down at his hands.

How long can he keep going before one day Kurapika sustains a wound that even he can’t fix? Leorio squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t even fathom it.

“Promise me, Kurapika.” Leorio winds the bandages around the soft flesh of the blonde man’s midriff with gentle fingers.

“Next time you go, bring me with you.”

“You want to come along?”

“I can’t sit by and watch you get injured again and again.”

“It’s too dangerous, you’re better off--”

“Better off what? Here? Patching you up every time you come home bleeding and in pain?”

Leorio’s hands grip the bandages tightly. “One day, if I have to bandage your dead body, then what? 

Kurapika falls silent.

Leorio sighs and reaches out, trembling hands cupping the back of Kurapika’s neck, softly pressing his forehead to his.

They time their breathing, inhale, exhale, eyes closed. 

They remain like this for a while.

“I’m just worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I wish you didn’t have to do this.”

“Me too.”

They open their eyes at the same time.

Kurapika’s grey eyes are full of sadness. Leorio understands perfectly. He cups the side of Kurapika’s face and brushes his cheek with a comforting thumb. He understands. Of course he does. He takes a deep breath and looks into grey eyes, imploringly.

“Just come home.”

Kurapika nods slightly.

“I will.”


	6. the one in which Chrollo really sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrollo/Kurapika
> 
> _Someday soon I hope and pray like Jesus_  
>  _I'll reach that wiser age_  
>  _Hope I will learn I really never never profit_  
>  _From things I do in rage_
> 
> Kurapika wakes up in a foreign room in a foreign bed. It's the last place he wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // TW: body mutilation , toxic r/s , trauma

Kurapika wakes up with a start. The first thing he notices is that he’s not in his bed.

_Where am I? What time is it?_ He tries to open his eyes but everything is dark and fuzzy. There is a sharp pain in the middle of his forehead, and it seems to me spreading across his entire head; the back of his eyes seem to be throbbing with heat and a dull pain. He tries to recall what happened leading up to this but his memory seems to be failing him. The last thing he remembered was… what was it?

He tries to move, but something is strapping him down, his arms and legs are plastered to the bed, held in place by some sort of fastener. He can’t look to see, there’s a cloth covering his eyes. Either Kurapika’s surroundings are pitch black, or his blindfold is incredibly effective at blocking out the tiny dots of light that usually make their way into even the thickest blindfold.

“You’re finally awake.”

At the sound of that voice, Kurapika’s blood runs ice cold.

It can’t be him. Not _him_.

Kurapika struggles desperately against his restraints, turning his head this way and that to locate the source of the voice.

“How are you feeling?”  The voice is closer now, moving towards Kurapika.

“What did you do to me? Where am I?” Kurapika turns his head sharply in the direction of the disembodied voice, snarling.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Chrollo Lucilfer’s voice is smooth and calm, a dangerous voice of honey and silk. 

He’s directly in front of Kurapika now, who instinctively recoils into the mattress behind him. 

“Let me go.”

“Oh, of course. You are a most valued guest here. I was simply patching you up for your return trip.” Chrollo sounds incredibly polite, kind even. But Kurapika hears the twisted mirth woven in the Troupe Leader’s words and his heart rate quickens. _What is he playing at?_

“What happened to me?” 

The headache is growing stronger, where earlier it had been a muted pulsing, it was now a strong and persistent throbbing behind his eye sockets. Kurapika blinks rapidly. He had deduced that he was in some sort of room, he hears the echoes of Chrollo’s shoes on the cement floor. The room had to have some form of light, otherwise how would Chrollo be walking around? By now, Kurapika’s eyes would have adjusted to what little light was in the room. Kurapika’s heart sinks.

“A blessing.” Chrollo’s voice grows further, as he paces from one side of the room to the other. “You are finally complete.”

Something is dropped into his lap and Kurapika jerks away, shocked at the sudden coolness against the thin cloth of his thighs.

“Do you know what that is?”

Kurapika can only feel around with his thighs, his arms having been strapped down to the bed. It feels like a jar, and it’s heavy. He hears the faint sloshing of liquid inside it, and the coolness indicates that the jar is glass, a cylindrical glass jar filled with an unknown liquid.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“Oh, it’s not yours.” Chrollo says simply, with a chuckle. “I’m letting you say goodbye. I thought you’d like that.”

Everything freezes. Time slows down for a few seconds as Kurapika registers those words. Everything falls into place and it finally clicks. The throbbing behind his eye sockets, why his vision is black despite the light, the heavy jar with its liquid, letting him say goodbye.

_ Oh. _

“You’re a fucking monster.” 

Kurapika spits. He can’t muster the strength or the wit for anything more devastating than that, and he feels pathetic, and weak. Chrollo’s ensuing laughter feels like a knife through his chest.

“Oh, that’s a good expression.” Chrollo’s voice is directly in front of Kurapika now, his face dangerously close. A hand touches the bandages covering his eye sockets and Kurapika jerks backwards, leaning as far away as he can from the heartless murderer before him. 

“Thank you, chain user. The set is now complete.” 

Kurapika can’t escape the hand, stroking and caressing the places where his eyes should have been. The jar is still clamped between his thighs and suddenly, he feels sick to his stomach. He knows it’s futile to try and keep them, but his senses have shut down and he can’t think to do anything else but cling to what’s left of his sanity and reality.

“I’ll be taking this now.”

The voice whispers honeyed lies into Kurapika’s ear and he feels the jar being taken easily from his lap; he couldn’t even put up a fair fight for his own eyes. Kurapika feels empty and nauseous. Something pricks his left arm and Kurapika starts to feel faint and woozy again, the pain in his head mixing with the dizziness.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again sometime soon. Until then, I’ll take good care of these.” 

There’s the faint sound of liquid sloshing around in the glass jar right near him, but Kurapika can’t even muster the strength to stay awake, much less fight back.

“You sick fucker.” Kurapika spits these final words as he slips beyond consciousness. 

In a few hours, he will awake, finding himself all alone in a deserted alleyway with nothing but an empty heart, empty eye sockets, and a trembling spirit broken beyond repair.


	7. the one in which Killua loves Gon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killua/Gon
> 
> _From the beginning to the end_  
>  _You've always been here right beside me_  
>  _So, I'll call you my best friend_  
>  _Through the good times and the bad ones_  
>  _Whether I lose or if I win_  
>  _I know one thing that never changes, and_  
>  _That's you as my best friend_
> 
> Killua and Gon have fun at the Zoldyck Mansion.

“Are your parents home, Killua?” the young boy in green asks in passing, as he flops down on his friend’s ample bed.

Killua shrugs.

“I never know when they’re in. My mother‘s probably here somewhere, skitting about in that stupid dress of hers. Dad could be out on a job.”

“Your house is huuuuuge.” Gon sits up, blinking in awe at Killua. “Have you explored every single inch of it?”

“Probably.”

“Cool!”

Killua looks away. It isn’t cool. Not really. The mansion is large, too large. The rooms are spread thinly, its occupants even more so. In the past, Killua hadn’t paid it much mind, seeing the place as a large playground like Gon must see it now, but returning to the place now has put it in perspective. He thinks about the past, his parents, the torture, Illumi. Perhaps it’s for the best.

“I prefer your house, Gon.”

“Huh? Why? Your house is soooo much bigger, we can probably go exploring and still not get through everything!” Gon responds, clueless about the thoughts that had just passed through Killua’s head.

“It’s warm.” He says simply.

Gon falls silent.

“It _is_ very sunny on Whale Island, true. Your house is kind of dark.” Gon thinks aloud, recounting memories from his own home and comparing it to his own experiences walking down the chilling hallways of the Zoldyck Manor.

Killua can’t help but laugh.

“In more ways than one.”

“Huh?”

_ It’s cold when you’re not around, Gon. _

“Nothing.”

Gon pouts. He can tell Killua isn’t telling him something.

“Well, I like your house better because you’re here, Killua!”

“Wh- that’s embarrassing, Gon!” Killua immediately turns a stunning shade of beet red, nudging Gon with his elbow.

“It’s true! Of course, I like it when you come over to Whale Island too. We can explore the woods together and everything, but I’m okay to go wherever as long as I’m with you, Killua!”

Gon beams up at his friend, full of radiance and brimming with happiness. Looking at Gon, Killua feels like he might explode. He bites his lip hard.

“Okay, I got it! I-” His eyes dart to the side, unable to maintain eye contact with Gon’s steely gaze. “I feel the same. About you.”

“Then let’s go wherever you feel comfortable! If you don’t like it here, let’s go to my house!” Gon hops to his feet and grabs Killua by the arm, dragging him along.

“Your house?! It’s so far away! I-”

“You said you prefer my house.” Gon’s expression is deadly serious, though the hint of childish naivete still evident in his visage. “So, let’s go. What’s wrong?”

Killua’s mouth opens, then closes. 

“Okay.”

Gon smiles. It’s almost too bright to look at, but this time, Killua holds his gaze; a shadow basking in the light of day. He smiles back.

“Good.”


	8. the one in which Hisoka grows up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka
> 
> _If only I could hear your voice and your laughter_   
>  _Just one more time_   
>  _my chest would be filled up with sunshine_
> 
> Hisoka didn't always know how to make cards disappear and reappear with the flick of a wrist. Even the best magicians had teachers.

“Watch closely.”

The boy’s ears perk up and he sits a little straighter on the floor. He has a head of unkempt ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. When Higeki says to watch closely, she means it in the most intense way. She notices the change in the boy’s posture and concentration, and a smile graces her features for a brief moment. A deck of poker cards materialises in her hands, and starts shuffling. The young boy watches intently. In one swift motion, Higeki places the deck of cards on the ground to her left and swipes them in a perfect arc across the floor right in front of the boy. Each card is equally spaced from its neighbour, face down such that its scarlet backing is clearly visible, a stark contrast to the drab grey ground below.

“Go ahead, Hisoka. Pick one.”

The woman named Higeki has a head of equally unkempt ginger hair and a sparkle in her golden eyes. She nods to the deck of cards spread out face down on the floor between them.

The young boy considers the spread of cards before him, inspecting every single one with keen eyes.

“This one.”

“Look at it, don’t show it to me.”

Hisoka peeks at the card. Ace of Spades.

“Put it back on the deck, and blow on top.”

He does as he’s told and the woman flicks her wrist, and the entire deck of cards disappears. Hisoka’s eyes widen slightly, then narrow once more. She shows him her empty palms, and then reaches behind his ear to pull out a single cube of pastel pink candy. She holds it out to him, smiling.

“Unwrap it.”

In the centre of the candy is a miniature version of the ace of spades, embedded in the soft pink gum.

“Did you get all that?”

It was a test, of course. Hisoka hesitates for a moment, before nodding. 

  
  


“Good.”

She looks around the small room and there’s a sadness in her eyes. Hisoka never sees this side of her. She’s always laughing, smiling, for him. For the first time, he feels a little scared. He’d never had reason to fear, but seeing the worry and sadness apparent in his mother’s face stirs something within.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Hisoka, listen carefully.” She pulls him into her lap and holds his face with gentle but firm hands. Hisoka’s heart rate quickens.

“What’s going on?”

“There will come a day that I can’t be with you anymore.”

The young boy’s mind is reeling. 

“You have to be strong, take care of yourself. Don’t trust anyone else.”

“Why are you telling me--”

“I said, _listen carefully_.”

Higeki takes a deep breath and presses her forehead to her son’s.

“That day might come sooner than we think. I wouldn’t tell you this unless you absolutely had to know.”

There’s a loud knock on the door and Hisoka jumps. But his mother’s grim expression tells him that she had been expecting it. It’s followed by a series of more impatient raps, a cacophony of banging fists against the wooden frame.

  
  


“Grab your things, pack a bag, lock yourself in the bathroom.”

“Mom, what--”

“Do as I say.” Her golden eyes flash dangerously. She gets to her feet and pulls him along with her, before kneeling down to be face level with her son. He’d always been good at hiding his emotions but the fear in her son’s face is plain as day.

“When I give you the signal, jump out the window and run as fast as you can.”

“How will I know-” Even as the words leave his lips, Hisoka already knows his answer.

“You’ll know.”

“And remember,” Hisoka’s mother walks to the door without glancing back at her young son, knowing that this might very well be the last time she’s ever going to see him. 

“Don’t trust anyone but yourself.”

* * *

_ Thwip _

The cards embed themselves into the opposite wall at a rhythmic pace, each one muffled with a resounding finality. The magician sits in the corner, seemingly casual about his practice but landing every card in a perfect line along the cracked wall.

_ Don’t trust anyone but yourself. _

Not even your own mother.


End file.
